“Numbers confuse her. She’s not.”
His gaze was a lot steadier than her heartbeat. “She’s the reason for those whispered phone calls I used to overhear, isn’t she?”
“Don’t be silly. I was talking to my lover.”
“She told me she lives at a place called Brookdale. After I hung up, I did a little research on the Web. Your talent for obfuscation continues to amaze me.”
“Hey, I haven’t obfuscated in weeks. Makes you go blind.”
He lifted an imperious eyebrow. She grabbed the casserole he’d brought, and peeled back a corner of the aluminum foil. Her lasagna. He’d stuck a fork in the top. She’d barely eaten all day, and the smell should have made her mouth water, but she’d lost her appetite. “It’s no big deal. Delilah is Emmett’s daughter. She was born with some mental disabilities. She’s fifty-one, if you must know, not forty-one, and she’s lived at Brookdale for years. She’s happy there. I’m all she has. End of story.”
“Brookdale is an expensive private facility.”
She carried the casserole she didn’t want toward a reading nook with a table and two chairs. As she sat, she extended the fork. “Normally we don’t allow food or drink in here, but we’re making an exception for you.”
He advanced on her. “This finally begins to make sense.”
“All right, I’ll eat. But only because I’m famished.” She forced herself to dig in.
“I know you loved the man, but what kind of father wouldn’t make provisions for a dependent daughter?”
She’d never betray Emmett by revealing her own frustration with his lack of planning. “His finances were complicated.” She forced herself to take another bite. “I make good lasagna, if I do say so myself.”
“This explains why you’ve been so obsessed with finding that painting. This is the missing piece. You were never interested in buying yourself diamonds. I should have figured that out.”
“No kidding. I think this is the best casserole I ever made.”
He braced his hand on a bookcase. “You need the money so you can keep her at Brookdale. You’re not the villain in this piece, are you? You’re not the viperous blond bitch-goddess who only cares about herself. You’re the poor, unselfish heroine willing to sacrifice all to help the less fortunate.”
“Seriously, don’t you want some of this?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She couldn’t head him off any longer, and she jabbed the fork into the casserole. “I had no reason to.”
“The fact that we’re lovers didn’t factor in?”
She shot out of her chair. “Past tense. And I do what I have to so I can take care of myself.”
“By building a wall that’s so thick nobody can see through it? Is that your idea of taking care of yourself?”
“Hey, I’m not the one spending all my spare time laying stone in the backyard of Frenchman’s Bride. You want to talk about your basic symbolism…”
“Sometimes a wall is just a wall, Sugar Beth. But in your case, putting up barriers is a permanent occupation. You don’t
“I have work to do.” She headed for the counter only to have him follow.
“You’ve created this alternate persona-this woman who’s so tough that she doesn’t care what anybody thinks of her. A woman so tough that she’s proud to announce all her character defects to the world, except-and make note of this, because here’s where your true brilliance lies-those faults you hang out for everyone to see don’t have anything to do with who you really are. Applause, applause.”
She concentrated on straightening a display of bookmarks. “That’s not true.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me the real reason you needed to find the painting? Why did you shut me out?”
“Why should I let you in? What possible advantage could there be in it for me? Should I have stripped myself bare just because still another man has walked into my life? Another man to destroy my well-being? Thanks, but no thanks. Now get out.”
He gazed at her in a way that made her feel as if she’d failed another of his exams. But she was living her life the best way she could, and if that didn’t suit him, then too bad.
He came toward her, and as he looked down into her face, tenderness replaced his customary haughty expression. “You are…,” he said softly, “… the most amazing woman.”
She wanted to melt into him like the needy exhomecoming queen she was. Instead, she kept her spine straight and arms at her sides. “I have work to do.”
He let her go with a sigh and walked to the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned back and regarded her imperiously. “It’s not over, my dear. Whatever you may think.”
She waited until he disappeared to rush to the door and throw the lock. Her chest felt tight, but she absolutely refused to start crying over another man. She grabbed the casserole and paced around the store, eating a few bites here and there, missing Delilah, missing Gordon, missing the man she was determined to lock out of her heart. By the time she finally got back to work, the pleasure had faded, and at ten o’clock, she began turning off the lights. When she reached the front of the store, however, something across the street caught her attention. At first she thought it was an illusion, an odd reflection from the streetlights, but then she looked more closely and gave a soft gasp.
Smoke was trickling from the second-floor window above Yesterday’s Treasures.
GEORGETTE HEYER,
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sugar Beth watched the smoke trailing from the window. The lights were on. Winnie was up there.
She dove for the phone and called 911. After she’d given the dispatcher the information, she hung up, thought for a moment, then grabbed the stapler from the counter, unlocked the door, and rushed across the street.
Smoke was still coming out.
There was no response. She peered through the front window but couldn’t see any smoke on the first floor. She rattled the knob and, when it didn’t give, stepped back and flung the stapler at the door. The safety glass shattered into a thousand round pebbles.
The faint smell of smoke hit her as she stepped inside. “Winnie!” She made her way to the back of the store. “Winnie, are you up there?” The smell of smoke grew stronger. She saw a narrow wooden staircase leading to the second floor. It had
“Winnie!”
She heard a thud, then an un-Winnie-like curse. “Call the fire department!”
“I did. Come down!”
“No!”
She strained to hear sirens, but there hadn’t been enough time. Reluctantly, she grabbed the handrail and made her way up the stairs.
Three rooms opened off the dingy hallway at the top, with a smoky haze coming from the center one. She headed toward it. “Winnie?”
“In here!”
The room was long, high-ceilinged, and old-fashioned, a combined living area and kitchenette. Smoke poured from the area near the stove. Winnie was beating at the cupboard next to it with a bath towel. Although Sugar Beth couldn’t see any leaping flames, the situation was far from under control, and Winnie should be getting out.
“I was making fried chicken, and-” She glanced over her shoulder and started to cough. “What are
“Do you want me to leave?”
“I don’t care what you do.”
“I should let you burn.”
“Then get out.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
